


Blacked Out

by Schwoozie



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, New York City, One Shot, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All the lights left in New York have gathered in the same dining hall, and it's here that Charles finds him again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blacked Out

Charles eyes the table across from his as smoke curls from the end of his cigarette, rising to disappear against the hazy nicotine ceiling. His foot taps without mind to the beats of keys and brass that smother the room in cheer, eddying against the velvet curtains and pockets of clandestine conversation. The hum of intrigue shatters, now and then – shrieks of laughter, the clink of knives on teeth, a sour note from the band as it plays for its life. By the end of the night, the bandmaster who now convulses and sweats will be wilting in his coattails – the negro servers drowned in swills of champagne – the guests long gone home to each other's beds. Garters droop at their ladies' knees; sultry songs whisper across cologned cheeks; under the sparkling electric lamps, gentlemen do their deals in the dark.

The indulgence, the indecency, the scream of saxophones swirl in a melange and melt through Charles's bones – his blood buzzes in pulsing lips against a trumpet, his too-quick breath the rat-tat-tat of the snare, the stamp of stilettos and swirl of skirts plucking the skin beneath his impeccably tailored suit.

The man he watches sucks deeply at his cigar. Charles nearly snaps his smoke in half.

His companions have long since written him off for the evening. _Charles is in a_ mood _again_ , they whisper from the corners of their eyes, watching him down his third martini of the hour. Sobriety is not a sin indulged by this lot, and by Charles least of all; but he is a mercurial drunk, and despite the inviting languor of his limbs, they lean away; they who have never hesitated to sup on each others' venereal blights feel uneasy beside his thrumming form. They don't notice his jugular jump as the other man rises to take his leave.

Charles stands abruptly, nearly tipping a filet into his neighbor's lap as he hurries to follow, weaving away through the crowd.

The emptiness of the outside steals the breath from his lungs, but he does not hesitate in dashing through the dim glow of the city, unnaturally somber as it cowers beneath the encroaching sky. Charles is trim for his class, but he struggles to keep up with the other man's longer stride; he loses sight of him until they reach the river. Charles approaches him, panting.

He has paused at the rail, watching the long, thick barges slide sluggishly past the shore. Even in the gloom, Charles can make out the familiar strands of gold weaving through his dark hair.

“I never thought you'd have trouble approaching _me_ , Charles. You do like to muck up old traditions, don't you?”

“You should be in France.”

“Was. Got shot. Now I'm here.” He turns to look at him challengingly, and shivers race across Charles's scalp. “What's your excuse?”

“I'm 4-F. My asthma.”

The man snorts, pulling a pack of Lucky Strikes from his jacket. He doesn't offer, and Charles feels a stab of remembrance – _the butts of a dozen smokes still smolder as the last fag passes slowly between them. They taste each other's breath in the dwindling filter. The radio hisses as the burn quietly, dutifully flickers out, and Charles turns to him, blinking, says_ –

“You're too pretty that life, anyway. It's better you're here.”

Charles's answer – too trite, too cliché, too late – goes unspoken. They never did speak much. Not in words.

An elderly woman picks through the gutter for ration cards, ignoring the white flash of their hands. Shoulder to shoulder, they watch the river and sky and the stars they'd never seen, not from here, as if through all the glittering nights they'd slumbered, weary and holding their breaths.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my fiction class, with the prompt "write a one-page story set in another time and place. Make your time period known without stating it."
> 
> Obviously I took the opportunity to Cherik it. For some reason I'm fascinated with the idea of them in wartime and interwar New York. It's all about the jazz.


End file.
